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Jeremy lowers his hand from his mouth, and I don’t miss the way his throat bobs with a hard gulp.
“Way, did you?—”
“Right here,” he says, tossing me a bottle of OJ. It lands on my lap.
I hand it to Jeremy, watching as he uncaps it. “It’ll go down better with a chaser.”
“You don’t chase it with anything,” he grumbles.
“Yeah, well, I’ve had practice.”
Rolling his eyes, he accepts the bottle, and takes a big gulp. Waylon goes to take the vodka from where he squeezes it between his thighs, but Jeremy shakes his head, and uses his free hand to bring it to his mouth.
I laugh. “You’re supposed to do it after.”
He manages to flip me the finger as he glugs back more of the liquor. Thrusting it at Waylon, he washes it down with the juice, draining nearly half the small bottle.
“Good thing I brought more,” Waylon says dryly, mouth hovering over the lip of the bottle.
Our eyes meet, and he shrugs. “Bottoms up.”
When I wake, it’s late. I don’t even have to look at the clock to know.
The house is silent, and the room is dark, save for a sliver of moonlight coming from the window.
Soft snores sound from somewhere on the floor, and I roll my head, squinting through the darkness until I manage to make out the body sprawled out on the carpet, right next to the bed.
Waylon.
Red light coming from the alarm clock next to my head glints off the bottle tucked against his chest, and a small, rueful smile curls my lip. I try to remember if we finished it…
Honestly, I don’t think I got more than a few shots’ worth down before the Vicodin knocked me the fuck out.
Speaking of which…
My arm throbs something fierce, the pain meds having worn off.
I roll my head the other way, somehow not surprised at all to find Jeremy there, curled up on his side, facing me, with his cheek smushed against his hand, mouth slackened.
His lashes flutter over his cheeks, and I wonder what he’s dreaming about.
I hope it’s something good.
My chest tightens, and I drag my gaze past him to where my pills sit on the nightstand next to his head. I look between him and the drugs, and wince, sending out a silent apology.
“Jeremy?” I murmur quietly, squeezing his shoulder with my good hand.
Nothing. Not even a grunt or a groan.
I swallow hard, and look longingly over at the bottle. I glance over my shoulder, in the direction of where Waylon’s passed out on the floor, and inhale harshly. “Okay, then,” I mutter.
Mashing my molars, I carefully, gently ease myself up into a seated position.
Fuck, I grit silently into the room as I throw a leg over a sleeping Jeremy, making it so I’m straddling his bent legs. Inhaling deeply, I hold my breath, using every muscle I’ve got to hold my balance so I don’t go crashing down on my injured hand as I lean over and swipe the small orange bottle from the nightstand.
I’m just about to flop myself back over onto my side, when Jeremy mumbles something in his sleep, and a second later, rolls onto his back.
My eyes bulge as I lose my balance, and careen forward. I have just enough wherewithal to keep my right arm elevated and out of the way when I crash down on Jeremy, face-planting the pillow next to his head.
